


It's The Principle of the Thing

by sospes



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Honeytrap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:43:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3354683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roxy works. Eggsy doesn't like it. Merlin's exasperated with them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's The Principle of the Thing

“I don’t like this.” 

Merlin toggles a switch or two, increases the magnification, and ignores the outburst. He’s preoccupied, anyway, watching heart-rate, infrared and three CCTV feeds at the same time, calculating and analysing the data as fast as it comes in, filtering out conversation and sound from the pumping club music that’s flooding in through his earpiece, so he doesn’t have time—

“You hear me, Merlin? I. Don’t. Like. This. Pull her out. _Now._ ” 

—to babysit. 

Merlin suppresses a sigh, says, “Lancelot knows what she’s doing. This was a part of her training as much as it was a part of yours.”

And he’s being spun around on his chair, away from the heart-rate and infrared and CCTV and towards Eggsy’s scowling face. _Galahad,_ Merlin reminds himself, not without a stab of grief in his gut. _Galahad’s scowling face._ “Merlin,” Eggsy says, enunciating each syllable like it’s his last. “Pull her out right now, or I’m gettin’ on those comms and I’m pullin’ her out myself. That guy—”

“Is her target,” Merlin interrupts, “and presents no threat to her. Fuck’s sake, Eggsy, he’s not even armed.” 

Eggsy takes a step back, and the look on his face isn’t exactly petulant—‘petulant’ isn’t a word Merlin tends to use to describe his highly-trained, extremely-dangerous colleagues—but it’s pretty damn close. “He’s got his hands all over her,” he says. “I don’t like it.” 

“I gathered,” Merlin says dryly. “And if you don’t like it, you can leave. No one’s making you stay here. You’re not even _meant_ to be here: you still haven’t filed your report on that Syndey case.” 

Eggsy handwaves him. “I’ll do it later. It’s nearly finished.” A lot of Eggsy’s reports are currently ‘nearly finished’. “You’re avoiding the question. _That’s_ not right.” His finger stabs at the CCTV.

Merlin takes that as his cue to turn around again. Lancelot is currently front and centre on the third CCTV feed that’s streaming in from the _Lioness_ , a club in one of the more exclusive ends of criminal London, leather trousers clinging to her arse and thighs, silk blouse billowing where it’s meant to billow and slinking where it’s meant to slink. Gold gleams at her throat, wrists, ears, even belt buckle, and her heels are high enough to kill. Quite literally, actually: Merlin has never been able to work with high heels before, but they are _much_ better hiding places for his toys than Oxfords or brogues or whatever the fuck he’s been working with so far. Hence his fixation with Lancelot’s shoes: blades concealed in the slim heels; flash grenades launchable from the platform base. Sleek, bright red Jimmy Choo finish. 

Not that he cares about that last one. 

“That,” Merlin clarifies, “is Lancelot’s job. _Galahad._ ” 

‘That’ is the skeevy arms dealer whose hand is currently down Lancelot’s unzipped trousers, fingers hidden from view, muscles working in his forearm, pumping in and out in rhythmic, powerful motions that work in time with the thudding music playing throughout the club. ‘That’ is also the pleasure sprawled across Lancelot’s exquisitely made-up features, pleasure which Merlin is pretty damn sure isn’t being faked considering the way Lancelot’s fingers are tugging at the guy’s short hair, the way her nails are ripping tears in his shirt. Merlin’s just hoping that the orgasm’s not so good she forgets what she’s there for – but he knows even before he thinks it that that’s not going to happen. Lancelot is good. Lancelot is _too_ good. 

Eggsy crosses his arms. “I don’t like it.” 

“Change your tune, Galahad,” Merlin drawls. “Or just go knock one out in your room. Whatever works for you, but stop complaining in my ear. I’m working.” 

Eggsy blusters. “That’s not what I’m sayin’! I’m not— She’s not—” And he falls silent without Merlin having to tell him to. 

Merlin doesn’t have to look to know that his cheeks are probably bright red. “Good,” he says brightly, then adjusts the zoom on the CCTV again, peers closer. Is that what he thinks it is? “Oh,” he says. “Oh, very nice, Lancelot.” 

On the CCTV, he sees the faintest hint of a smirk cross Lancelot’s lips. It’s gone in less than a second, of course, fast enough that he’s probably the only one who notices it, and then her lips open in a scream of ecstasy. Merlin winces as it comes through his earpiece. 

“Oh,” Eggsy suddenly says. He steps forward, leans his fists against Merlin’s console. “Oh, Rox. Good girl. _Good girl._ ” 

“See?” Merlin says, toggles the zoom again, focuses in on Lancelot’s clenched right hand, the hand that’s no longer tugging at the arms dealer’s hair, the hand that’s clenched tight around the tacky pendant that they know for a fact hides a datachip which contains all of this guy’s dirty dealings. All of them. “She got it off the chain while he was, ah, getting her off. This is why _she’s_ on this mission, Galahad, and you’re here breathing down my neck.” 

Eggsy’s shaking his head. “She’s fuckin’ good.” 

“Yes, she is,” Merlin agrees, and watches as Lancelot slips the pendant into the specially-designed X-ray-proof, undetectable pocket woven into her bra – another item of clothing that Merlin is having great fun playing with. Not like that. Having great fun _experimenting_ with. Oh, that’s even worse. He pulls a face, pulls the zoom back out again—

Eggsy starts back, and even Merlin glances away. “Ah,” Eggsy says. “D’you think maybe we should—?”

“Yeah,” Merlin interrupts. “Yeah, we probably should. As long as the sensors are monitoring her vital signs and the infrared, I don’t think we need to keep watching the CCTV.” 

Eggsy coughs. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice is a little rougher than it was before. 

Merlin can’t say he blames him. Lancelot’s leather trousers are off her legs now, cast aside in a crumpled heap on the thick carpet, and the arms dealer is, ah, in position, ah, between her legs, hands gripping her thighs and— 

Merlin clears his throat. “Right,” he says. “Lancelot, you hear me?”

On the screen, Lancelot’s thumb pricks up just slightly in acknowledgement.

“I’m taking you off CCTV,” Merlin says. “I’ll still be at the console, so just say if you need me to bring the feeds back up.”

Lancelot’s thumb dips again, and she says, soft enough that her arms dealer beau can’t hear over the music but just loud enough that Merlin can make it out, “ _Tell Eggsy to put his tongue back in his mouth._ ” – and then she moans, rich enough that even Merlin feels his trousers getting tighter. 

“Right,” he says again. “Okay. Feeds going off now.” 

He pretends not to hear the strangled noise that escapes Eggsy’s throat. 

 

Roxy swaggers into the shop three hours later, lipstick perfect, not a hair out of place. She drops the datachip in Merlin’s palm and says in that crisp, clear accent, “Inform me when you’ve decrypted the files?” 

“Of course,” Merlin says, tucks the chip into his pocket. He pauses, raises a finger, but drops it again before he says anything. “No, never mind.” 

Roxy’s expression is quizzical. “Merlin? What is it?” 

Merlin’s trying his damnedest not to smile. “Galahad might have some problems looking you in the eye for a while,” he confesses. 

Roxy just smirks, broad and beautiful, and says, “He’s protective. _Over_ protective.” 

“I noticed,” Merlin says wryly. “He’ll learn, though.”

Roxy’s eyes are bright and knowing. “You’ll _all_ learn,” she says, and it’s mocking but not unkind. She bends down, starts taking off her shoes. “Like these, for instance. Gorgeous, I’ll give you that, but a nightmare to wear all night.” She winces, sits down on the edge of the dining room table. “I’ve got blisters on my blisters. You’re going to have to learn about shoe design, Merlin.” 

Merlin can feel his eyebrows creeping up his forehead. “I’ll put that on my to do list,” he says. 

Roxy hears the amusement in his tone as clearly as if she was the one who said it. “You do that,” she says, then straightens up, barefoot on the carpet, says, “We might be called Kings _men_ but that doesn’t mean that a woman is any less qualified for the job.”

“No,” Merlin says, and doesn’t think about the CCTV footage. “No, I know that.” 

“Good,” Roxy says. She pauses, smiles to herself. “Think of it as an evolution.”

“Evolution?” 

Roxy’s smile grows wider. “Adapt,” she says, “and survive.” 

Merlin thinks about flash grenades in shoes and hidden pockets in bras, about that arms dealer with his hand between Lancelot’s legs and the grin on her face that’s quite separate from the ecstasy. “Change,” he says, “is a good thing.” 

Roxy’s lips twitch. “That sounds remarkably close to feminism, Merlin,” she says. 

Merlin shrugs. “Don’t tell the others.” 

“It’ll be our secret,” Roxy says, and smiles at him with bright white teeth. “Oh, and Merlin?” 

“Lancelot?” 

Her smile is wicked. “I think Galahad needs more training in the control room. Next time I go out, do you think you could schedule him in for some practice? The honeytrap next week should be perfect.”

Merlin thinks of Eggsy’s purpling cheeks and suppresses a grin. “I’ll have a look at the schedule.” He pauses, shakes his head. “You’re cruel, Roxy. The poor boy didn’t know where to look.” 

Those bright red heels dangle from Roxy’s hand, and she says, brightness gleaming in her eyes, “Time for him to learn.” 

Merlin cocks an eyebrow. “For the sake of feminism? Or is it evolution?”

Roxy laughs. “No. _That’s_ just funny.”

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> I think this fandom is going to have a lot of honeytrap!fic going on...!


End file.
